


Fields of Fire

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Gen, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John, we have him!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fields of Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Diana!

"John, we have him!"

John looked up only to catch the flick of a fabric as Angus spun and dashed around the corner. He grimaced, patted Iain on the shoulder. "You'll be fine, man. The poultice our Harriet's put on is drawing out the poison, you'll be right as rain in a few days."

That was stretching things a bit, but chances were Iain would make it. Maybe not on to the battlefield again, yet John was continually surprised by who and who did not survive wounds such as Iain had gotten. The horse falling on him was one thing, the arrows to the thigh another, the filthy, bloody muck he had spent hours in a third thing altogether. If and when the fever broke, they would know the true measure of Iain's future in this world. God willing, there would be one, for the others, too. 

John heaved himself off of the short stool, wincing only a little at the ache in his own thigh. Mere thought of it brought to mind the pain in his shoulder, which twinged and ached now every day. Then again, he could be one of the boys here in this room, recuperating - or not - from the latest battle. Someone down the all shouted his name and he headed towards the vaults. There was only one person Angus could have been referring to, and if it were true, John was going to have his head on a pike. 

The crowd of men standing outside the vault parted as he approached. Their bloodlust a miasma he could practically taste as he stepped through the doors, which remained open as he went down the stone steps into the vault. The vault had been cleared of everything save the tuns of ale and whisky and wine that were still too heavy to shift. The vault was chill, and stank of malt and fear. Syme stood a few feet behind their prisoner, his arms crossed, the fine blade of his battle axe glinting in the flickering torchlight. The man seated in the chair had hair ginger as Annie's, a trimmed beard. Dried blood scabbed down one side of his head and neck; he futilely rubbed his chin against his shoulder. Probably itched something fierce, and John was glad. The man was dressed as a townsman in MacNeil tartan trews, shirt and vest and jacket. His hands were tied to the back of the chair by the wrist, otherwise he was unsecured. Given the men in the hallway, John was sure not even that was necessary. Besides, the man was obviously not a MacNeil, no matter the colors he wore.

Ignoring the burn in his leg, John sat on the middle step and stared the man. Who twitched. Looked at John, glanced away, looked back at John. 

"You're going to kill me," said the man, his voice hoarse.

John rested his elbows on his knees, propped his chin on his hands, shrugged. "The least you deserve."

"I can offer you things."

"Oh, really? I'm listening."

The man licked his lips. "Do you know who I am?"

John smiled ever so slightly. "You're the man who murdered my wife and child."

"Aye, and my mither!" shouted William from behind John, destroying the silence that had fallen in the attempt to hear the discussion.

"Y'bastard!" called Davey.

John rocked his head from side to side, still smiling. "I'm listening," he repeated. "And aye, I ken who y'are."

"I have a proposition for you," The man said, looking John over from head to toe.

The gaze lingered on John's knees, and for a moment he couldn't understand why. Then he realized he was wearing his kilt - ah. He didn't change position. 

"An exchange of hostages. Myself for my younger brother. He is the King's favorite - "

"What's he doing out here then?"

"The King felt he needed the experience. I don't think he meant it in quite this fashion," the man said ruefully.

"And what's in this for me."

"I don't wipe your clan off the face of God's good Earth."

There was a shocked silence, then a cacophany of rage from outside the vault. John got to his feet, calmly walked to Mycroft Holmes and backhanded him across his face. John waited until the Kingmaker stopped spitting blood and said, "Now, tell me the rest."

~*~

John decided to meet Sherlock Holmes to the Long Gallery. He sat on the Watson's chair - and why not? He had just as much right, perhaps more now that his father, Douglas, Callum, and James were all dead. Alexander had wanted to put him on a dais, but John couldn't be bothered. Who cared about propriety when their very existence as a clan was at stake? 

Alexander and Syme brought Sherlock into the Gallery blindfolded, his arms bound tightly behind his back. He was halted a few feet away from John's chair. John looked him over carefully to make sure they hadn't tried to make some point or another with their knives. They had poor manners, the both of them. Sherlock Holmes was not as tall as his brother, though still taller than John. That was all right, most every man was. He had dark hair and pale skin, and was more slender than John had expected after meeting his brother. And, unlike the elder Holmes, Sherlock was plainly dressed in plain trews, no hint of tartan. John nodded at Alexander, who removed the blindfold. Sherlock glanced at John, then around and up at the rest of the room. John could tell he was tense. Little wonder, he would have been too, if his Douglas had sent him to the MacDougalls as hostage. Sherlock finally turned his attention back to John and they stared at one another for a long, drawn out moment.

"You're not going to kill me," said Sherlock, his voice deep.

Alexander jerked Sherlock's arm hard, said, "Y'don't speak to the Watson til he speaks to you, ken?"

"Yes, all right, I understand."

John had never been the primary son. The only boy of the Watson's second wife, and though the last child born to the Watson, John had never been considered anything but a short afterthought by his father and older brothers. His mother had doted on him, and encouraged him to learn the ways of the green herb rather than those of the sword. However, even youngest sons had to learn to fight, and he had taken to it, had found fierce joy in it. He had soaked up everything he could, hanging on to the coattails of the Watson's warriors, listening to their stories around the fire at night, sparring with them, much to their delight. It had been Big Ally who had taken him aside one night, and told him to listen to everything the Watson said. 

'"Don't ever think y'won't need to ken, Johnny. These are treacherous times, y'might find yersel' without friend in this place, y'ken?"'

Aye and aye, he did. So it was with surprise he found that he himself was now the Watson, the others lying fallow where they had fallen. He looked at Sherlock a moment longer. "Your brother's a trusting fellow."

Sherlock barked a laugh. "You're more a fool than I thought if you believe that."

"Yet I agreed to take you on."

"Then you really are a fool."

John couldn't help but smile. "Alexander, Syme."

Syme frowned, shook his head. "John - "

John let his face still, said nothing.

Syme pursed his lips, nodded. "Aye."

Alexander looked between Syme and John, then started towards the other end of the Gallery. Syme hesitated, then followed. They didn't leave, merely lingered at the far door, hands on sword pommels. That was fine, that was good. Should Sherlock make a move towards John, they would finish him. Or they could stab his body after John killed him.

"I hear you can perform magic," said John, rubbing his thigh.

"Magic? _Magic?_ " Sherlock scoffed. "Nothing more than gypsy tricks for children. I do nothing of the sort."

"Prove it," challenged John. "Find who's been killing my men."

Sherlock's mouth twisted into something approaching satisfaction. "That would be yourself."

"My _patients_ ," John clarified. "They're dying, and I don't know what from."

Sherlock blinked as well as he could, what with the one eye nearly swollen shut. "You want me to what?"

"Something is killing my men, and it's not their injuries."

"You - you're the youngest - John Watson!" said Sherlock, surprise plain in his tone.

John looked at him quizzically. The Watson and Douglas had been killed in the spring, Richerd some three months past, and James only in the last week. 

"Aye..."

"I...didn't know. _You're_ the physician?"

John nodded, wondering how Sherlock hadn't already known. News of this sort spread quickly, so how was Sherlock so ignorant of the facts?

Sherlock's shoulders went down. He stared at the floor, frowning. "Does my brother know?"

"I should think so!" said John with a bitter laugh.

"You've been on the battlefield," said Sherlock, taking in John's appearance.

John looked down, too. He wasn't dressed for an audience, particularly, just simple every day wear; kilt, plaid, shirt, the leather boots needing new heels, the leather vest with the pockets Mairi had sewn on. Sherlock drank him in as a starving man faced a plate of buttered rolls. 

"- yet you're also a well seasoned warrior. You've been shot in the shoulder, and your leg has pains for no reason. You almost lost the use of your arm, no, you almost died from the resulting infection."

Now it was John's turn to blink. "That was...amazing."

Sherlock straightened slightly. "You think so?"

"Of course. Your brother wasn't lying, then."

"Oh, he frequently lies, but not about my skills in deduction."

"So...I should only believe some of what he says," John watched Sherlock carefully to see how he reacted.

"Absolutely."

John chuckled. "At least you're honest."

Sherlock acknowledged him with a twitch of his eyebrows. "Mostly."

"You'll find who ever is doing this, then."

"Yes," Sherlock said. And then, pensively, "You'll send me back to Mycroft after?"

"We'll see," answered John, raising his arm. "Be warned, Sherlock. I'll not have you making my men worse. If you do so your brother's bargain means nothing, Kingmaker though he may be," To Alexander and Syme, he said, "Get him cleaned up, then bring him to the infirmary. Let him look around and then bring him to me. Sherlock, I'll want to hear a full report."

"Leave me alone to do my work, and you'll have it."

Sherlock was led from the Gallery with his hands still tied behind his back, Syme taking no chances with John's safety. Which was hilarious in and of itself. And yet, John felt a little lighter. He didn't intend on losing the war, but if he didn't have to think about what was happening in the infirmary - and elsewhere, though he hadn't mentioned it to Sherlock - then he could concentrate on what to do next. The Kingmaker had made…allusions…and while John was very wary of him, and actually had no desire to be King, having the Kingmaker by his side would not hurt his position in Clan Watson or Buchanan. 

Overall, he was pleased. Pleased his men had caught the Kingmaker, pleased he had Sherlock Holmes, pleased he appeared to have the upper hand for once. Mairi would have loved it. But Mairi was no longer here…John sighed and headed down stairs. He was hungry and wanted a sweet before going to the infirmary. Sarah would be in the kitchens…that might be sweet, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The best thing about Fantasy Scotland is that one doesn't have to pay attention to things like who wore what, where. Ie, Lowland Scots didn't wear kilts until the 19th Century, okay? Only those feral savages in the North wore them, not self-respecting Scottish men!
> 
> Though this takes place during war time, I chose not to be specific. I mean, it's Midlothian, the Borders - pick a time period and there's a battle taking place somewhere...
> 
> I've based Clan Watson's home in Saughton, using [Crathes Castle](http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/crathes/crathescastle/) in Banchory, Aberdeenshire - or at least the original fortified house - as my inspiration. Imagine it with fewer windows (damn those Victorians!). It's the coziest castle I've ever been in.
> 
> This fic is brought to you by [Big Country](https://youtu.be/dIp-fduqy0E) and [Runrig](https://youtu.be/pzQ1pNfbe3Q) and [Martyn](https://youtu.be/xe9SNSk9GVY) [Bennett](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09vbngMkCdo). (You can watch a great documentary about Martyn's last album 'Grit', here on [Youtube](https://youtu.be/9aJXNN_D07o). I wish I'd thought to see him in concert before he died.


End file.
